


Out of the Mouths of Babes (or Toddlers)

by CorvetteClaire



Series: Misbegotten [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eavesdropping Toddlers, Family Drama, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mpreg, Pregnant Draco Malfoy, Pregnant Sex, Snarky Draco Malfoy, accidental magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26050360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvetteClaire/pseuds/CorvetteClaire
Summary: Draco is four months pregnant and starting to show. Harry is deliriously happy, but Draco is not so sure he's enjoying this. Then there's Bob (Felix) who doesn't like his fathers keeping secrets. Featuring: Ill-fitting trousers; aesthetic mishaps; not-so-accidental magic; still more adorable toddlers; a McDonald's French Fry fetish; and sex in the sink (not as bad as the stairs, but still painful).One-shot sequel toThe Finer Points of Ancient Egyptian Fertility Magic.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Misbegotten [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743016
Comments: 36
Kudos: 237





	Out of the Mouths of Babes (or Toddlers)

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this story took so long to write! I had trouble getting into the right snarky frame of mind, and it kept going angsty on me.
> 
> This installment contains less smut and more Bob than the last one. I apologize if he's too teeth-achingly sweet (I tried to avoid that), but he is necessary. He actually drives the plot this time.
> 
> Enjoy!

Harry enjoyed being right (well, honestly, who doesn’t?), but he enjoyed even more those moments when his stubborn git of a husband had to _admit_ that he was right. It didn’t happen often. Draco could stare a fact dead in the face and flatly refuse to see it—especially when said fact worked to Harry’s advantage. But every now and then, Harry (sometimes literally) backed him into a corner and forced the precious words out of him…

_You were right, Harry._

When it came to Draco’s pregnancy, they weren’t there yet, but they were getting damned close. Harry, of course, knew that he was right, but Draco was still fighting it. Still sulking and snarling and scowling at his changing body in the mirror, even as Harry’s constant state of arousal threatened the balance of his mind and the structural integrity of his pants.

He was doing it now (the heartless little twat), standing there with a towel wrapped low on his hips, a lovely tumble of loose hair down his back, and a gentle but unmistakeable roundness to his belly that drove Harry mad with desire. Harry, lounging in the bathroom doorway and drinking in the sight of a scantily-clad Draco, had to fight the urge to drop to his knees on the mat and kiss that gorgeous bump. Then to kiss the pout from Draco’s lips. Then to push him up against the sink and shag him to whimpering goo.

His cock leapt, and the seams of his trousers groaned under the strain.

Merlin _fuck_ , that man was beautiful! And Harry had been so incredibly, unbearably, _agonizingly_ right that he would only get more beautiful with every inch his belly grew! More desirable, more delicious, more alluring and edible and fuckable and…

“You’re drooling very loudly, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes snapped up to meet the grey ones taunting him from the mirror. He grinned without a trace of embarrassment for where his imagination had wandered. “Just enjoying the view.”

“Hmph.” Draco looked down at his stomach, and his scowl deepened. He splayed a hand over it, as if to press it flat again. “I look like I’ve swallowed a Quaffle.”

“Not a Quaffle yet,” Harry objected.

Pushing away from the doorjamb, he crossed the few steps to the sink and halted just behind Draco. Then he snaked his arms around the other man’s waist, slipped his hands into the top of the towel and around the swelling in his abdomen to cradle it.

“It’s more of a Bludger, I’d say.” He ducked his head to nibble the curve of Draco’s neck and murmured adoringly, “A perfect little Bludger b—.”

“Call it a _bump_ and I will hex your balls into your throat,” Draco snapped, cutting him off and jerking him out of his lustful haze.

Harry lifted his head. “What’s wrong with ‘bump’?”

“It’s a revolting turn of phrase, and I will not have it used to describe my body!”

His eyes began to twinkle fondly. “Prat.”

“I mean it, Potter! If you want to walk straight for the next month, you’ll stop now!”

“Fine.” Turning the other man around, he pressed him back against the sink and bent to nuzzle his throat again. “It’s not a bump.” He found the tucked-in end of the towel and pulled it free. The towel slid to the floor, leaving Draco magnificently naked. “Now, can we fuck?”

“With our son just across the hall? Getting ready to scream the house down, no doubt?”

“I already checked on him,” Harry mumbled into his neck, his hands now busy with his own clothing. “He’s perfectly happy playing with Mr. Platters until his papa is ready to feed him his breakfast.”

“But his papa is too busy getting an arseful from his randy git of a daddy.”

“Yeah.” His trousers and pants pooled around his ankles and his aching cock free at last, Harry turned his attentions from Draco’s throat to his lips, groaning, “Brilliant, isn’t it?” before capturing them.

“You really are unbelievable, Potter.”

Harry just hummed and leaned forward, rocking Draco back on the edge of the sink and bringing his feet up from the floor. A wordless spell, and his cock was slicked up, sliding into its sheath with just the right amount of resistance, just the right amount of burn to make Draco groan and arch up under him. Then Harry felt those long, sleek legs go around his waist, that hot arse swallow him to the root, that lovely, leaking prick stroke up his stomach, and he thought his heart might burst with sheer joy.

This was exactly where he belonged. Exactly as it was meant to be. His gorgeous fucking husband, with his gorgeous fucking never-to-be-called-a bump, spread out beneath him, taking everything he had to give and begging for more. It was every dream, every fantasy he’d ever had.

“I’m going to make you say it,” he murmured against Draco’s panting lips. His hips snapped forward, plowing the other man into the cold porcelain and dragging a filthy moan from him. “Say I was right.”

“ _Hnnngh!_ ” was Draco’s only response.

Harry gave a breathless laugh, braced both palms flat on the mirror, and ducked his head to fasten his mouth to Draco’s throat. Another snap of his hips, another wrecked sound from the man beneath him, and he was lost. Abandoning all restraint, all awareness of anything beyond their joined and straining bodies, he proceeded to fuck them both into an explosive climax.

Long, warm, sticky minutes later, Harry finally dragged up his head to find Draco’s half-lidded eyes fixed on his face. The light in them could only be described as tender, as was the smile that tilted his bruised lips, but his tone was acerbic when he said,

“The tap is digging into my spine.”

“Sorry.”

Harry promptly straightened up, bringing Draco with him. Slipping both arms around the other man’s torso, he caressed his abused back and kissed the upturned corner of his mouth. Draco’s lashes drooped still further.

“Not sorry enough to shag me on a soft mattress instead of a hard sink, apparently.”

“Poor love.” Harry kissed him again, more lingeringly. “Come to bed and I’ll make it up to you.”

His lips quirked up in a mocking smile. “Smooth, Potter.”

“I only meant that I could put some dittany on that bruise for you.”

“Sure you did.” Draco’s voice was dripping with sarcasm, but his body was still warm and pliant in Harry’s arms. “And that bulge in your trousers is a bag of owl treats.”

“I’m not wearing trousers.”

“Hmm.” He kissed Harry lingeringly, then pulled back to say, “I hate to be a killjoy, but Bob is waiting and I still have to put my face on.”

Harry’s hand came up to caress his flushed, flawless cheek. “What’s wrong with this one?”

“I need something a little more professional than the ‘just fucked’ look, since I’m meeting with a potential client this morning.”

That finally got Harry’s mind out of his crotch. “A client?” A delighted smile blossomed across his face. “That’s brilliant! Why didn’t I know about it?”

Draco shrugged, his eyes sliding away and his shoulders tightening. “The owl came while you were at work yesterday.”

Harry immediately caught the shift in his mood and bit back his demand to know why Draco hadn’t told him sooner. Instead, he gathered him close in his arms, kissed him soundly, then lifted him down from the sink and proceeded to spell his body clean.

“I knew your career wasn’t over, no matter how much you whinged about it. I’m only surprised it took them this long to find you.” His hands and magic were caressing, his voice cheerful, his manner perfectly pitched to calm his skittish husband’s nerves and revive his flagging confidence. “You’ll have a line of clients out the door, once word gets out that you’re back to work.”

“It’s only a preliminary meeting,” Draco grumbled, wariness and hope warring in his face. “It could still fall through.”

“When has it ever?” Turning Draco around, Harry examined the purple-red welt on his back. “You’ll definitely need some dittany on that.”

“I’m not getting into bed with you, Potter.”

Harry chuckled at his grumpy tone and held out his hand to summon the bottle of dittany they kept in the bedside table drawer for just such contingencies. When he touched the bruise with a potion-smeared fingertip, Draco flinched.

“Hold still.”

“It’s cold.”

“Baby.” Another wandless spell warmed the potion. As he resumed work, he said softly, “You’re a bundle of nerves. What are you worried about?”

“Making a fool of myself.”

“You never have before. What’s changed?”

“I have.” Jerking around and interrupting Harry’s ministrations, Draco fixed an accusing glare on him. “In case you haven’t noticed, Potter, I’m up the duff. Between that and the bloody Mark on my arm, I’m more of a circus freak than a barrister.”

“Hey. Don’t call yourself names.”

Harry moved to take him in his arms, but Draco turned abruptly away again to confront his image in the mirror. His features were rigid, his spine ramrod straight, his head tilted at an arrogant angle, but Harry saw the insecurity and fear in every line of his body. He might as well have been screaming and weeping. Harry privately wished that he would, if only to let the tension out of his body.

Stepping up close behind him, Harry propped his chin on his shoulder but kept his hands at his sides. Draco was in the prickly phase of his pregnancy, his hackles perpetually raised and his moods erratic. Harry never knew for certain what he would get when he reached for him—a warm, willing, passionate armful, or a face full of poisoned quills—and it didn’t do to crowd him.

Their gazes met in the mirror. Neither man spoke for a long moment, while Harry studied his husband’s face. Only when he saw Draco’s chin lower a notch or two and his mouth soften from its haughty sneer into a defensive scowl did he finally slip his arms around his waist.

“You’re a brilliant barrister,” he murmured, “and everyone knows it. Madam Marchbanks asked me just last week when they’d see you in court again. She misses you.”

Draco snorted. “She misses poking fun at my clothes.”

“No, she misses your eloquent speeches and ruthless arguments. She said that no one wakes up the Wizengamot like you do.”

He snorted again, more softly, and settled a little closer in Harry’s arms.

“Your clients don’t care about your Mark, and they won’t care about the baby, either. You’re their hero. Their warrior-barrister. They can’t do without you.”

“You do realize that you’re a complete fantasist?”

Harry saw the gleam of humor in his eyes and chuckled. The fit of insecurity was passing, melting in the heat of Harry’s unflagging adoration. “I prefer ‘optimist’,” he retorted.

“How about ‘delusional git’?”

“How about you make yourself beautiful for your meeting, while I start breakfast? I need to feed that fabulous, pregnant body of yours before it wastes away to nothing.” He gave Draco a squeeze and a kiss on the temple. “Yeah?”

A wry smile tugged at Draco’s lips. “Yeah.”

“You want some pretty purple streaks in your hair?”

He shook his head. “I think I’ll ease them into it. Save Draco Potter, warrior-barrister, forthe second meeting.”

“But you won’t go all Severus Snape on them, will you?”

“No, just a tamer version of me.” His eyes gleamed provocatively at Harry, and his smile twisted into a familiar smirk. “What’s the matter, Potter? Don’t trust me to dress myself?”

“After the time you threatened to stand up in front of the Wizengamot in a sequined crop-top? No, not really.”

“Out!” Draco elbowed him in the ribs, forcing a _whoop_ of surprise from him and rocking him back on his heels. “Go make my breakfast! And feed our child, while you’re at it.”

“Yes, Master,” Harry croaked, sounding uncomfortably like Kreacher the house-elf at his most servile, “at once, Master! Only permit your devoted slave to cut himself into tiny pieces and fry them up for Master’s breakfast!”

The look Draco gave him in the mirror was pure venom. “One more word, Potter, and I’ll have you ironing your hands.”

“Anything to please the most beautiful and noble scion of the House of Black!”

With that, Harry fled, laughing, before Draco could throw something at him.

* * *

Draco stepped into his trousers and pulled them up to settle around his hips. Turning to peer over his shoulder, he studied the result in the full-length mirror and allowed himself a smug smile. The fine, charcoal-grey wool lay smoothly over the taut curve of his arse—still as firm and enticing as the first time Harry had reached for it with carnal intent—and hung to his heels without a single crease or wrinkle to mar its pristine elegance. He might have just brought the trousers home from the tailor, so flawless was the fit.

It seemed that Draco Potter could carry off even a magically-induced pregnancy with devastating style.

Still smirking, he turned his back on his reflection and reached to fasten his flies.

The button would not close.

Muttering a curse, he sucked in his stomach, held his breath, and tried again. The button and buttonhole came to within an inch of each other, but as soon as Draco let his breath out, they gapped wide again. Abandoning that approach, he tried to close the zip. It slid about halfway up then stopped, with the pale mound of his stomach pushing through the V of dark wool.

“Bollocks!”

He cut a guilty glance at the door, just to assure himself that Bob wasn’t within earshot (the infernal urchin had a habit of repeating everything he heard his fathers say, and the more inappropriate the words, the more loudly he shouted them), then snatched up his wand from the bedside table.

Pointing it at his midriff, he muttered, “ _Temperare vestimentum._ ”

Nothing happened.

He bit back another curse, adjusted his grip on his wand, and tried again. Still nothing.

On his third try, magic gushed from his wand, filling the room with acrid purple smoke. Coughing and spluttering, Draco waved it away from his face, then he checked his trousers. They were unchanged. But the blue satin eiderdown that Harry so loved to fuck him across had turned a shocking shade of tangerine, and the matching brocade bed curtains were now a nauseating baby-shit brown.

“Salazar’s stinking _cock!_ ” Draco screamed, hurling his wand at the far wall in a burst of impotent rage. His eyes filled with hot, furious tears that he could not control (entirely the fault of the purple smoke, obviously) and his fists clenched against his thighs. “I’m going to fucking _kill_ you for this, Potter!”

He suddenly froze, taken aback by the violence of his own reaction, and in the silence, heard the clump of feet on the stairs. Harry, running up to see what all the shouting was about. Draco must have been louder than he knew for Harry to hear it all the way down in the kitchen. Either that, or he’d felt the unusual discharge of magic.

“Draco?” The call came from a floor down, echoing in the stairwell. “Are you all right?”

“Fine!” He gulped and cast an appalled look around him at the aesthetic disaster that was their bedroom. Harry could not see this—could not see _him_ in this ridiculous state. “I’m fine!”

“What’s wrong?” He was in the hallway now, his feet muffled by the carpet but his voice frighteningly close.

“Nothing. I said I’m fine.” Another panicked look around, then he snapped in his most cutting tone, “Don’t _fuss_ over me, Potter! I’m not three years old!”

The footsteps halted a few paces from the door. Harry paused, then said, “Something lit up the wards.”

“I dropped my wand. That’s all.” He sounded like the petulant three-year-old he claimed he was not, but he couldn’t bear to have Harry find him like this, with his trousers gaping and his eyes full of tears. It was too humiliating. “Go take care of our _actual_ toddler, and I’ll be down when I’m good and ready.”

Harry hesitated for another moment, almost audibly weighing his options, then he said with forced cheerfulness, “Don’t be too long! Your breakfast will get cold!”

As the sound of his footsteps retreated, Draco sagged down to sit on the edge of the bed and heaved a sigh of mingled defeat and relief. He still had to face Harry. And he still couldn’t fasten his bloody trousers. But at least he had avoided the inevitable pity and laughter over his rogue magic for a few minutes. Of course, he had to face that, too, eventually, since he couldn’t fix this mess himself.

Over the last four months, Draco had nearly lost the ability to use magic. It wasn’t that the magic itself was gone, but that it was all needed to maintain the little life growing inside him. At first, he had still been able to cast simple spells if he concentrated hard enough. But as the weeks passed, it became more and more difficult, until he could barely throw sparks from his wand, and what magic he could summon was completely out of his control. He no longer dared even try to use magic around Bob, for fear he would injure the boy with some rogue spell (or just embarrass himself beyond belief when his darling son announced to the world at large that his father couldn’t light a candle without blowing up the house).

He should have known better than to try today, but he was so wrought up over the prospect of finding a new client after so long—of reviving the law practice he had worked so hard to build and abandoned with so little thought in order to please his persuasive git of a husband—that he’d lost his head. Well, he wouldn’t make that mistake again. And maybe, if he was lucky, Harry would just stay out of the bedroom until he had time to rip down those hideous curtains and burn the coverlet. He could stop by Diagon Alley on his way home to buy something new and tell Harry that he’d grown tired of blue as a decorating scheme. Then Harry would never need to know.

Five minutes later, Draco stalked into the kitchen, trying his level best to look dignified in a pair of joggers and one of Harry’s t-shirts that was at least two sizes too big for him. Harry was at the stove, tending a cast iron skillet that sizzled invitingly. Bob was in his highchair at one end of the massive kitchen table, wielding a fork with predictable clumsiness and spreading scrambled eggs over every visible surface. Both of them looked up at Draco’s entrance, wearing matching smiles of welcome. Harry’s expression morphed from warmth to bemusement as he took in Draco’s clothing, but Bob (bless his oblivious heart) noticed nothing amiss.

“Papa!” he squealed in delight. Then, brandishing his loaded fork, he added triumphantly, “I have eggs!”

“Lovely. Were you planning to eat them or wear them?”

He could hear the sourness in his own voice, and part of him regretted it, but he stubbornly refused to be charmed—even by Bob’s Veela-enhanced adorableness. Not this morning. Not when he was standing here, _literally_ barefoot and pregnant, with no control over his own fucking body or his own fucking magic, with no trousers that _fucking fit,_ all thanks to a fucking irresistible green-eyed git who was smiling at him like… like…

“Felix, the eggs belong in your mouth, not in your hair,” Harry said mildly, breaking Draco out of his brooding trance and bringing his eyes to Harry’s face.

… _like he was the most precious thing in the world_ , Draco finished, his insides warming at the thought. Some of his ill humor slipped away.

“Eggs are my faaaav’rite,” Bob sang happily, all the while stabbing at the yellow globs on his plate. “Papa have eggs?”

“Papa doesn’t want eggs.” Harry turned back to his skillet and poked at the contents with a spatula. “Papa wants very black coffee and something heavy that will stick to his ribs while he’s busy saving the wizarding world from its own corruption and stupidity.”

Draco cracked a fractional smile at that. “Prat.”

Harry glanced up, eyes twinkling. “Only for you, love.” Then he cocked his head and knit his brows. “Don’t you have a meeting this morning?”

“At half-ten.” Draco crossed his arms defiantly over the tea-stain on his shirt. “What of it?”

“I was just expecting something a bit more formal than joggers, is all.”

“Yes. Well. I don’t have _something more formal_ that will fit over my…” He gestured vaguely toward his midriff.

“Seriously?” Harry set down his spatula and, for the first time, turned fully to face his scowling husband. “I didn’t think your bu— er, _Quaffle_ was that big already.”

Draco sniffed in what he hoped was his signature haughty style, though he suspected that it was a bit on the pathetic side. “ _Some of us_ choose not to dress like derelicts. _Some of us_ wear clothing that actually fits. Until _someone_ gets us up the—”

“Draco,” Harry said warningly, bringing Draco’s teeth together with a snap.

Both men cut glances at the boy watching them so curiously from his highchair, and Draco mentally cursed himself for his carelessness. Hormones were turning his brain to mush. One more week of this, and he’d be blabbing his secrets to every stranger on the street, with no thought for the consequences.

When he realized that he had both his parents’ attention, Bob decided it was time to join the conversation. “Papa is growing like a Snarg’luff,” he announced.

“ _What?_ ” Draco spluttered.

“Finish your breakfast, young man,” Harry ordered, clearly hoping to stem the tide of Bob’s eloquence before it really got going.

But Bob (true Malfoy-Potter-Veela-platypus child that he was) blithely ignored him and went on, “That’s what Gamma Molly says. I’m growing like a Snarg’luff. And so’s Dom’nic and Freddy and Rose and…”

“Yes, thank you,” Draco cut in hastily, before he could name off every one of the vast Weasley brood, “but I am not one of Molly’s innumerable grandchildren, and this is entirely Harry’s fault.” His eyes narrowed dangerously, as they slid over to his husband. “For which I do not forgive him.”

“What’d Daddy do this time?”

He sounded so much like Draco in that instant, that the man himself rolled his eyes and groaned, “Bloody hell!”

“That’s _enough_ , Felix! Be quiet and eat your breakfast. And you,” Harry turned a stern look on his husband, “watch what you say in front of that little menace.”

“What’s a menace?” Bob asked, in all innocence.

“A wretched brat with no sense of decorum, who talks with his mouth full, wears his eggs, and interrupts private conversations with ill-mannered remarks!” Draco snapped.

Bob gave this due consideration, then declared, “I’m not a menace, I’m a _urchin._ ”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Draco muttered, while Harry tried to smother his own laughter and frown his son into a proper state of penitence.

He was failing spectacularly on both counts, until he got a good look at Draco’s face, then all humor deserted him. “Draco? What’s wrong, love?”

Draco just shook his head.

Casting a furtive glance at their son, then a silent _Muffliato_ to ensure their privacy, Harrycaught Draco’s hand to pull him closer. As Draco moved into his arms, melting into his chest, he felt fresh tears burn his eyes.

Fucking hormones.

He burrowed his face into the curve of Harry’s neck to hide them.

“Is this really about your clothes?” Harry murmured into his hair. “Because we can fix them.”

“Maybe _you_ can.” He paused, then mumbled, “You’re going to throw an eppy when you see the bedroom.”

“Why? What did you do?”

“Redecorated.”

A soft chuckle shook Harry’s body. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Trust me, it can.” Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist, holding on for dear life, and whispered into his neck, “I’m sorry, Harry. I know I’m being an unbearable twat this morning.”

“Not _completely_ unbearable.”

It was Draco’s turn to chuckle, though it came out a bit soggy. “It’s all your fault, anyway, so I’m not sure why I’m apologizing.”

“That’s more like it.” His tone abruptly shifted. “Draco?”

Draco looked up to meet his concerned gaze.

“It’s going to be okay, I promise. I’ll loosen your robes a little, and no one will notice your stomach.”

“And how long will that work? You heard Granger. My body isn’t built for this, and now that I’ve started to show, I’m going to blow up like a… a Snargaluff in no time.”

“Snargaluffs actually look like old stumps and don’t grow all that fast. I don’t know where Molly got that one.”

“You’re missing the point again, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes twinkled at the familiar note of derision in Draco’s voice. “As usual.”

“Hmmph!” He drew back a little further to glare up at his husband but pointedly did not loosen his hold on him. “We can’t keep this secret much longer. Are you ready for the wizarding world to find out that I’m up the duff?”

“What’s up the duff?”

Harry and Draco jumped apart as if stung, their heads snapping around to stare in shock at their son. Bob still sat in his highchair, clutching his fork and watching them with wide, guileless eyes. Draco goggled at him as if he were some rare new species of Magical creature he’d never seen before.

“Did you…” he spluttered, “did he…?”

“He did,” Harry concurred, face grim. His voice took on a dangerous edge. “Felix, how did you break my spell?”

“I told it to stop,” Bob answered simply. “I wanted to hear.”

“ _Salazar on a stick!_ ” Draco breathed. Then, with a taunting look thrown at Harry through his lashes, “Bested by a three-year-old. You’re losing your touch, Potter.”

But Harry did not rise to the bait. He was still focused on their son and his incredible—not to say impossible—feat of magic.

“You banished my spell so you could eavesdrop on a private conversation? That’s very rude, young man.”

Bob set his jaw in a way that was pure Harry and countered, “It’s rude to talk secrets. What’s up the duff?”

Harry and Draco exchanged a look. Harry’s brows rose in question, and Draco shrugged helplessly.

They were properly in for it now. There was no way in bleeding hell that their child—endowed as he was with Draco’s Slytherin guile, Harry’s Gryffindor brashness, and a ruthless determination to have his own way that was entirely his own—would let this go. And now that they knew he could overpower even Harry’s spells on a whim, they had to assume that he could hear everything they said (or did, which was even more horrifying).

No secret would ever be safe again. Merlin help them!

Draco’s thoughts must have shown on his face (yet another way in which he was losing his grip) because Bob switched from curiosity to fright in an instant, wailing, “Papa’s scared! Why is Papa scared?”

He began to kick his feet—preparing to free himself from the spells that held him in the chair, no doubt—and reached both hands toward his father.

“Papaaaa!”

Forgetting anger, embarrassment and everything else in his need to reassure his son, Draco crossed to Bob in a few hasty strides and scooped him out of the chair. The little boy latched his arms and legs around him with surprising strength, doing his best octopus imitation, and pressed his face into Draco’s neck. It was already wet with tears.

“Why are you scared, Papa? Did Daddy do something bad?”

“No, urchin, he didn’t. I promise.”

“You said it’s all Daddy’s fault…”

“I was teasing.” Draco petted his hair. “Just teasing. Daddy would never hurt me, I _promise_.”

Bob sniffled dolefully, then asked, “What’s up the duff?”

Draco sighed and cast a pleading look at Harry. His hopelessly noble husband took the hint and stepped up to take Bob from his arms, saying in his most reassuring way, “I’ll explain it to you, little man, but you have to let Papa breathe. Come on.”

Bob reluctantly loosened his hold on Draco, only to fasten himself to Harry instead. Harry tucked him neatly into the crook of his arm and settled onto the bench that ran down one side of the long, roughhewn table. After a moment’s hesitation, Draco sat down beside them and put a hand on Bob’s back. The little boy rested his head on Harry’s shoulder but kept his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Draco.

“Do you remember when you went to stay with Uncle Ron and Auntie Hermione for a few days?” Harry asked. “When you got scared because you thought Papa was sick?”

Bob nodded, rubbing his egg-smeared cheek on Harry’s shirt. “You said he was tired.”

“That’s right. He was tired because his body and his magic were working very hard.”

“On a secret,” Bob supplied.

“Right. Well, the secret was that Papa is up the duff.”

“That’s bad.”

“No, it’s good. It’s wonderful.”

“It makes Papa scared.”

“Because new things can be scary, even when they’re wonderful. ‘Up the duff’ means that Papa is having a baby.”

“A baby?” Bob lifted his head to gaze at Harry with wide, trustful eyes, his cherubic little face solemn. He thought for a moment, then ventured, “Like Auntie Ginny?”

“Yes, exactly like that.”

“And Auntie Fleur?”

“Yes…”

“And Auntie Audrey? And Auntie Luna? And…”

“That’s right,” Harry said firmly, cutting off the endless litany of aunties, “like _all_ of them.”

A beaming smile lit Bob’s face, and the gaze he turned on Draco was aglow with excitement. All traces of tears had vanished. “A real baby? Like Dom’nic and Freddy and…”

“Please, Bob,” Draco said wearily, “not another list.”

“Can I see it? Where is it? What’s it called? Can I _play_ with it?”

“It hasn’t been born, yet,” Harry said. “It’s still growing in Papa’s tummy. You remember, before Auntie Fleur had Dominique, how big her tummy got?”

“Like a Hogwarts carriage! Uncle Bill said.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “We won’t be saying things like that about Papa, okay?”

“Okay,” Bob agreed happily but, in the next breath, demanded, “Is Papa going to get big like a carriage?”

“Probably,” Draco sighed. “I’m halfway there, already.”

“Bollocks,” Harry retorted, earning him a disapproving glare from Draco and a chuckle from Bob. “If anything, you’re getting skinnier. Except for your Quaffle, of course. You don’t eat enough.”

“Yes, well, someone never fed me breakfast.”

Harry laughed and transferred Bob back into Draco’s arms so he could bounce to his feet. “One heavy, starchy, greasy breakfast for the next Great Legal Mind of Magical Britain, coming up!”

While Harry busied himself at the stove, Bob settled on Draco’s lap and gazed up at him with worshipful eyes. It never failed to amaze Draco how unreservedly his son loved him. He adored Harry, of course—everyone did—but Draco was not adorable by nature. He was snarky and spiky and self-involved and all those things that kept other people at arm’s length. So it baffled him how his brilliant and insightful son could look at him and see someone worth loving.

“Papa?”

“Hmm?”

“Is your baby a Quaffle?”

Draco laughed softly and dropped a kiss on Bob’s white-blond head. “No, urchin, Daddy only calls it that for a joke. It’s a baby, just like Dominque or Freddy or Gabriel.”

“You’re making a list,” Bob informed him, soberly.

“I am. I apologize.”

“That’s okay. I like lists.”

Then, under Draco’s startled eyes, he slid onto the bench beside him and leaned over to rest his head on the swell of Draco’s stomach. For a long moment, no one moved. Draco was vaguely aware that Harry had turned to watch them, but neither man spoke. They just stared at the little boy’s bent head and serene face.

“Bob?” Draco finally ventured, unable to take the silence any longer. “What are you doing?”

“Listening to the baby. It’s gurbling.”

“That’s my stomach. And that’s not a word.”

Bob twisted around to look up at Draco, now lying in his lap. His grey eyes were huge and solemn and just a tiny bit afraid. “Are you happy you have a baby, Papa?”

Draco had to swallow the lump in his throat before he answered. “Yes.” Tears filled his eyes, as he realized just how true that simple statement was. And just how hard he’d fought it for all these months. “Very happy.”

“Good.” He smiled seraphically, seeming to brighten the basement kitchen with his delight. “Me, too.”

*** *** ***

Draco returned from his client meeting halfway through the afternoon, with a bag of takeout food and a pile of parchment scrolls in his arms. Harry met him at the floo, looking worried, and almost lifted him out of the fireplace in his hurry to get his hands on him. Scrolls cascaded to the floor, disregarded, as Harry took him in his arms, but he clung doggedly to the food.

He’d gone to a lot of trouble to get his hands on some Muggle cash so he could feed his McDonald’s French Fry habit, and he’d be cursed six ways ’til Sunday if he lost them now.

“Where have you been?” Harry demanded between kisses. “I expected you for lunch!”

“I had some research to do.” He hefted the bag. “And vital sustenance to acquire.”

“More chips?”

“They’re not _chips,_ ” Draco informed him loftily. “ _Chips_ are English atrocities. _These_ are the only truly civilized thing ever to come out of the Colonies.”

Harry plucked the bag from his hands, opened the top, and peered inside. “Four cartons? _Seriously?_ ”

Draco shrugged. “You said yourself that I don’t eat enough. Now, kindly cast a Warming charm on them, so they don’t go stale, and hand them over. I’m not sharing.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Harry said, holding the bag out to him with a grimace.

Draco took it and noted, with satisfaction, that it was several degrees hotter than before. Since his discovery of McDonald’s fries in the first month of his pregnancy, he had rarely gone a day without them and had learned a few harsh lessons about this most perfect of all foods. Most notably that they had to be eaten within minutes of coming out of the fryer-cooker-Muggle contraption that produced them or they were virtually inedible. A decent Warming charm would save them, but since he couldn’t cast one, that did him little good. As a result, he’d spent a surprising amount of time eating in that quintessentially Muggle place, a McDonald’s dining room, or badgering Harry to salvage his rapidly-cooling fries.

Luckily, Harry couldn’t say no to him, even when it meant watching him eat low-grade junk food by the tonne. He reached into the bag to grab several fries and shoved them in his mouth, groaning in delight, while Harry Summoned his dropped scrolls.

“I take it the meeting went well?”

“If you mean that I have a new client, yes.” He shot Harry a chagrined look and added, “There’s no payment involved.”

Harry shrugged. “When is there ever? Can you help, at least?”

“Not if it goes to trial.”

Together, they traipsed out of the room, Harry carting the scrolls, while Draco inhaled french fries between rapid-fire explanations. Even pregnant and ravenous, he couldn’t quite bring himself to abandon his manners and talk with his mouth full.

“It’s a simple case of parole violation (pause to chew). He’s obviously guilty (pause to chew). The Wizengamot would throw him back in Azkaban without blinking, given the chance. But it was a minor violation, no real harm done, and the Ministry is only pursuing it so they can reverse the original agreement and confiscate what’s left of his family estate (longer pause to eat more and give Harry time to respond).”

“Sounds like the man is headed back to prison.”

“Maybe (gesture widely with the bag in one hand and half a dozen fries in the other). But maybe I can find enough precedent for leniency to force them into a new agreement that saves his family from total, fucking destitution. It all depends on keeping it out of court (inhale the fries almost without chewing this time).”

“Hence the research.” Harry hefted the pile of scrolls.

“I have to dig up transcripts for every similar case since the war and compile a list of the arguments used. Hopefully, I can also find evidence of Ministry malfeasance, where pureblood estates are concerned, just to put the fear of Kingsley Shacklebolt in those wankers! You know how he gets when he smells corruption…”

“Merlin, you’re sexy when you’re on a crusade!” Harry growled, shoving Draco unceremoniously up against the wall of the basement hallway and stooping to bite at his throat. “I’ve missed it…” Another bite that sent shivers running down Draco’s spine, then he added, “All that gorgeous self-righteousness…”

“You’re crushing my scrolls,” Draco informed him breathlessly (dropping the bag all together).

“Fuck the scrolls.” Harry banished them (Merlin knew where, but Draco wasn’t in any frame of mind to worry about it just now) and moved both hands to the front of Draco’s robes. “I’ve been waiting for hours to get my hands on you.”

Those hands—those masterful, powerful, fucking _fantastic_ hands—were inside his robes, caressing his swollen belly, shoving his pants down to his thighs, freeing his filling cock. At the feel of Harry’s thumb sliding over his head, spreading hungry wetness over both of them, Draco let out a thoroughly undignified whine and tried to shove him away with a hand against his chest.

“Where’s Bob?” he panted, even as he rolled his hips helplessly and thrust up into the circle of Harry’s fingers.

“Having a nap. I put up a Muting spell, just in case you got home in time for this…”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do.” A memory of that morning popped into Draco’s head, distracting him from the sinful, bone-melting things Harry was doing to him and bringing his manic energy bubbling up again. “Can you believe what he did? Merlin _fuck!_ Three years old, and he’s instinctively countering Master-class spells?”

“Well, he is your son,” Harry pointed out, leaning back to eye him in resignation.

“I never did anything even remotely like that. Fuck, Harry, I _still_ can’t stand up to your magic!”

“Sure you can.” He smiled, eyes twinkling. “All you have to do is look at me like that.”

Draco laughed and reached for him, pulling him in until their foreheads touched. “Sap.”

“Absolutely.” He angled his head to tease Draco’s lips, while his hands slid around to clasp his bum. Between them, their two cocks pressed into the swell of Draco’s abdomen, sending a fresh ripple of delicious pleasure through him.

“Harry.”

“Hmm?”

He turned his head to free his lips and murmured, teasingly, “You do realize that Bob has probably been banishing your spells without us knowing for months.”

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Salazar only knows what he’s heard.”

Harry fixed him with a challenging look. “Then nothing he hears now will surprise him, will it?”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it…”

“It’s the only way to look at it.” Harry leaned in to run his tongue up the column of Draco’s throat, stopping just behind his jaw to suck gently, then murmuring into his tingling skin, “It’s not like we’re going to turn celibate to spare his tender ears.”

“True. _Unngh_ , fuck, Harry!” His cock was leaking, his legs aching to lift and open and wrap themselves around his lover’s body, but they were still standing in the hallway, mostly clothed, with a bag of cooling french fries. Not the best position to be in. “Can we at least get into the kitchen?”

“Why? This wall’s as good as any.”

“I need to eat my food.”

“Later.”

“And find the scrolls you so rudely banished.”

“ _Later._ ” This time, Harry went for his mouth, capturing it in a long, hungry kiss that effectively stifled Draco’s protests and made his knees go weak. He was sagging against the wall, in imminent danger of melting into a puddle at Harry’s feet, when the other man pulled away to murmur, “You taste like chips.”

“French fries.”

“Whatever. Just kiss me…”

*** *** ***

Eager to polish his metaphorical lance and tilt at a few windmills of injustice (yes, Draco knew all about Don Quixote and his windmills because he was not an illiterate heathen, like a certain green-eyed git of his acquaintance), Draco looked forward with real enthusiasm to the prospect of spending his Sunday up to his eyeballs in legal precedents. He submitted to his daily round of spells and potions, soaked the aches out of his abused muscles in the bath (pregnancy fucking _hurt_ , even with Harry’s magic to help it along), then enjoyed a lovely shag before adjourning to the kitchen for breakfast. His meal was enlivened by endless questions from Bob about his impending brother or sister, which Draco answered with more than his usual patience, so mellow was his mood. Then, pausing only for another quick shag on the table when he and Harry miraculously found themselves alone in the kitchen, he headed for the library, blithely announcing that Harry should not expect to see him for some hours.

That was when Harry popped his euphoric bubble. As per fucking usual.

“Don’t forget that we’re having lunch at the Burrow.”

Draco broke stride, his hand on the door latch. “What?”

“The Burrow. Lunch. Today. I reminded you at least three times since we got the Owl.”

Dropping his hand, he turned to glare at his serenely-smiling husband.“You did not.”

“I did. It’s not my fault that you have Pregnancy Brain and can’t remember your own name half the time.”

“On the contrary,” his eyes narrowed dangerously, “it’s entirely your fault.”

“Well, that’s beside the point, isn’t it?”

“No, it is _not_ beside the bloody point…!” Stopping to take a calming breath, Draco tried again. “ _Why_ are we having lunch at the Burrow?”

Harry shrugged. “Does it matter? Because Molly likes to feed us.”

“She can feed us another day,” Draco grumbled, turning back for the library door.

Harry’s hand on his arm halted him. “Come on, Draco. It’s only for a few hours. Then you can bury yourself in manky, old parchments for a week, if that’s what you want.”

Draco turned to look at him (always a mistake) and was hit by the full broadside of his most winsome, pleading, kicked-puppy-dog gaze. He folded on the spot, though he kept the fact of his husband’s victory hidden behind his haughtiest façade for another few precious seconds, pretending he still had a spine.

Harry cocked his head, gave him a hopeful smile, and murmured, “ _Please?_ ”

“You bloody bastard. I’ll make you sorry for this.”

Harry grinned, all winsome pleading vanished in an instant, and leaned in to kiss him on the nose. “I can’t wait.”

*** *** ***

Harry was pants at Divination. He always had been. If a magical creature existed that was the polar opposite of a Seer—a creature that stumbled blindly into the future, oblivious to the most blatant signs and warnings—Harry was one. It was the Gryffindor in him, perhaps, always ready to barge through any door without considering what was on the other side. Or just the natural pig-headedness that made him such an exemplary Hero. Whatever it was, it prompted him to beguile Draco into joining him for lunch at the Burrow.

Knowing his husband, his son, and his extended family as he did, he should have had an inkling of what was coming. He should have begged off, invented a previous engagement, pretended Felix was sick, feigned a work injury, _anything_ to sleaze out of what was destined to be a train wreck of epic proportions. Instead, he stepped blithely into the floo with his family, sublimely unconcerned by the Grim lurking at the bottom of his tea cup.

At first, Harry’s blind optimism seemed justified. Everyone was delighted to see them, and no sooner had they stepped out of the floo than they were absorbed into the happy, chaotic throng. The afternoon went swimmingly until they sat down to lunch at a table in the back garden, enchanted to hold the entire Weasley brood and a veritable mountain of food.

Draco and Harry sat together, Felix sandwiched between them on the bench, and addressed themselves to the delicious meal. From one end of the table, Molly prodded all and sundry to have second and third helpings of everything. From the seat to her left, Andromeda dropped pointed remarks about how much Draco’s mother would enjoy seeing him (she had mended her relationship with Narcissa in recent years and was determined to see that Draco did the same). From across the table, Hermione alternately lectured them on the pitfalls of negotiating with Centaurs and scolded Rose for talking with her mouth full, while beside her, Ron rolled his eyes and shoveled food into his mouth without pause. The two men let it all wash over them, too used to the constant din to pay it any mind and too interested in their food to waste their time talking.

That was when the axe fell.

“Draco, my dear,” Molly said, an edge of concern in her voice that demanded their attention, “are you feeling quite well?”

Draco paused. Blinked. Chewed and swallowed before answering. “Perfectly well, thank you.”

“Only, you don’t look it.” She narrowed her eyes at him, telling Harry that she could see right through his husband’s bland, smiling mask. “You’re much too pale and getting thinner by the day.”

Draco instinctively put a hand to his belly—thankfully hidden under his loose shirt and the table’s edge.

“In fact, you’re looking decidedly peaky.”

“She’s right, Nephew,” Andromeda cut in. “You haven’t been yourself for some weeks. Is there something you’re keeping from us?”

“I’m fine, honestly,” Draco assured them, that polite smile still pasted over his face but his body rigid with strain.

“Looking after a toddler can be exhausting,” Molly went on, “and if you’re not getting enough rest, it’s easy to fall sick…”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Draco almost snapped.

“Stop fussing over him, Molly!” Arthur called from the far end of the table. “He’s a grown man with a mother of his own!”

That sparked a round of chuckles from the listening family, but the central players were not amused. Harry reached past Felix to clasp Draco’s shoulder, trying to steady him, while Draco stared woodenly into his plate and the two women fixed him with beady eyes that saw far too much for comfort.

“Is that what those potions are for? The ones you try to hide from us?” Molly suddenly demanded. “Because you’re ill?”

Draco’s head snapped up and his eyes widened. He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could find the words, Felix did it for him.

In a voice as high, clear and carrying as a bell, he sang out, “Papa’s up the duff!”

There was a beat of stunned silence. The entire table froze in a ludicrous tableau, forks suspended in midair and mouths at half cock, as if they had all been hit with a massive _Petrificus Totalus_. Then Harry broke the spell, rounding on his son and hissing, “ _Felix!_ ”

That was the signal for everyone to start talking at once. Most of it was a wash of noise and laughter, punctuated by exclamations of “ _Seriously?_ ” and “Merlin!” and “Now I’ve heard everything!” but Molly’s scolding voice carried inexorably over all the rest.

“You mustn’t tell stories like that about your father, young man!”

“Ee does not know what eet means,” Fleur said, flipping her hand dismissively.

“I do so!” Felix declared stoutly. “It means he’s having a baby!”

The tide of disbelieving, outraged voices rose even higher at that, with Percy snapping, “Stuff and nonsense!” and Arthur saying more kindly, “I’m afraid that’s not possible, my boy.”

Felix got a mulish set to his jaw and retorted, in a voice so like Draco’s when he was in a snit that it sent shivers down Harry’s spine, “It’s true. Daddy said so.”

“Your Daddy was teasing,” Molly assured him, even as Andromeda pursed her lips and said, “Honestly, Harry. The things you two say in front of that child.”

“My Daddy doesn’t lie! Papa’s having a real baby, like Dom’nic an’ Freddy an’ Gabriel an’…”

“Felix,” Harry said warningly, “that was supposed to be a secret.”

A fresh silence gripped the table, as the import of Harry’s words sank into their collective brains. As a result, Felix’s answer carried clearly to every shocked, horrified ear.

“That was before. Now Papa’s growing like a Snarg’luff an’ you can’t keep it secret.”

“That doesn’t mean you can shout it out to everyone without asking first. It wasn’t your secret to tell.”

Felix lifted huge, limpid eyes to him and sniffed dolefully, his Veela magic enhancing the effect to wring every drop of pathos from the moment. “But Papa said he was happy to have a baby, an’ you said…”

“Felix, sweetheart, _enough._ ”

At the head of the table, Arthur cleared is throat to get Harry’s attention. When the younger man looked up, he ventured, “Harry, are you telling us…?” Harry shot him a rueful look that dried up the words in his throat. His eyes widened dramatically.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Molly gasped.

“Eet’s not possible,” Fleur insisted.

George gave a crack of laughter. “No? This is the ferret we’re talking about!”

“Shut it, George,” Ron snapped, even as Angelina elbowed him in the ribs.

In the midst of this, Harry cut a worried glance at Draco and found his husband staring blindly at his plate with a fork full of food still clutched in his hand. He had not moved since Felix’s announcement. Had barely blinked. And at the sight of his rigid face and blank eyes, Harry’s heart turned over.

“Look,” he said, loudly enough to cut off the chatter all around the table, “can we just… talk about something else?”

“I’m afraid not,” Arthur replied. “This is quite the surprise you’ve sprung on us.”

“I know, and I promise I’ll explain everything. But this wasn’t how it was supposed to come out, and I think Draco is a little…”

“ _Pregnant,_ ” Molly cut in fiercely. “You’re telling us that your _husband_ is _pregnant!_ ”

“Yes,” Harry said heavily. His hand found Draco’s under the table and squeezed it hard, but Draco’s cold fingers did not move in his.

“I think you’d better tell us how you managed this, Harry,” Bill said with surprising calm.

“Well, it was Hermione, really…”

“ _Granger_ got your husband up the duff?” George demanded, eyes gleaming wickedly. “This just keeps getting better!”

“That’s quite enough out of you, George,” Arthur said sternly. “This is not a joking matter.”

“I should say not.” Andromeda’s voice was tight with anger, her face rigid with disapproval. The gaze she flicked between Harry and Draco was sharp enough to flay the flesh from their bones. “I cannot believe you two would do something so foolish and reckless and…”

“ _Wrong?_ ” Draco’s head snapped up, his frozen immobility burning away, his voice thrumming with barely-contained fury. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?”

With sudden, explosive force, he hurled himself to his feet and stepped away from the bench. The entire Weasley clan watched, wide-eyed and tongue-tied, as he thrust out a hand toward Harry and snapped, “Your wand, Potter!”

Harry surrendered the wand without hesitation, privately wondering what Draco hoped to accomplish with it, given that his magic was so weak and erratic, but unable to deny him in this mood. Draco took the wand in his left hand, pointed it at himself, and barked a spell. To Harry’s surprise, there was no awkward pause, no splutter of weak sparks, no blast of random destruction, but a gush of scintillating power that poured out of the wand to twine around Draco’s body. Before the magic had fully dissipated, Draco tossed the wand back to Harry and struck a pose, head cocked arrogantly, arms lifted and spread, inviting them all to look.

“Satisfied?” he sneered.

No one answered. The vision in front of them had robbed them of words.

Draco had transformed his loose, long-sleeved shirt into a baby-pink crop-top covered in sequined leopard spots that slipped coyly off of one white shoulder and left his arms bare. His once-sloppy jeans were now so tight that they might have been painted on and slung indecently low on his hips. Between jeans and shirt, the swell of his abdomen stood out plain for everyone to see. And when he lifted his arms, his Dark Mark seemed to hiss balefully at the gobsmacked company.

Harry felt his heart swell with pride and his cock lift. This was his Draco. Strong. Beautiful. Fearless. Unashamed. Ready to face down friend and enemy alike with his haughty stare and his acid tongue. Harry had missed him. And Merlin _fuck_ he loved him!

“As you can see, Bob was telling the truth,” Draco went on, at his most scathing, “and you’d better get used to it because this is happening. Harry and I are having a baby. You can accept that or not—I don’t particularly care which—but don’t expect me to beg for your approval or apologize for my choices.”

“Oh, Draco,” Hermione sighed, “no one’s expecting…”

Draco silenced her with a level look, then continued, “This is who I am. Draco Potter. A pregnant wizard who will gladly defy the Laws of Nature to give his husband what he wants most in this world. I hope, for Harry’s sake, you can learn to live with that.”

He dropped his arms, drew himself up stiffly, and turned his haughty gaze on Molly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think we’ll be going. I’ve had quite enough prying and judgement for one day.” Holding out a hand to Felix, he said, in a softened tone, “Come along, urchin.”

Poor Felix gazed up at his father uncertainly, one finger shoved in his mouth and his eyes round as saucers. He had never seen Draco in this mood before (or not at such close range) and didn’t know what to make of him. When Draco just waited, hand outstretched and face impassive, he pulled his finger from his mouth to say, in a small voice, “I want pudding.”

Draco dropped his hand. “That’s up to Harry. I’m leaving.”

Harry scrambled to his feet, warned by the note in Draco’s voice that his volatile husband was on the verge of losing his grip and he needed to get him away. Bending close to Felix, he murmured, “You can stay for pudding, if Ron and Hermione are willing to look after you.”

“Of course we are,” Hermione assured him.

“Thank you. Behave yourself, little man, and I’ll pick you up at Auntie Hermione’s later.”

“Daddy? Is Papa angry?”

“Not at you, sweetheart.” He pressed a kiss to Felix’s cheek, then stepped up beside Draco, took his hand, and started for the house at his side.

None of the Weasleys dared to stop them until they were striding past the end of the table, nearly away, and Percy suddenly barked, “Hold up a minute, Malfoy! You can’t just—”

His words choked off as Draco whirled on him, teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. “It’s _Potter,_ you insufferable tit, not _Malfoy_ , and I will be happy to show you exactly what I _can_ do, if you open your fat gob again!” His eyes lifted to rake the table, pinning them all in their seats and drawing a faint _eep!_ of alarm from Audrey. “That goes for all of you. I had better not hear a single whisper about this at the Ministry or read a line in the papers! Bob is only three years old and can be forgiven a lack of discretion, but you do not have that excuse.”

Percy, his face flushed a painful red, tried again. “I’m not intimidated by you, Malfoy! I hold a position of trust at the Ministry, and it’s my duty to report the use of _questionable_ magic! Especially when performed by a known Dark wizard!”

“Percy, _hush!_ ” Audrey wailed, at the same moment that Draco gave a crack of sour laughter.

“What’s the matter, Weasley? Afraid I’ll impregnate all the high-ranking officials at the Ministry in some convoluted plot to undermine the government? If you’re so concerned with the _questionable magic_ we used, ask Granger about it. She’ll be happy to give you all the gory details. But in the meantime, you’d best keep your mouth shut, or you’ll find out just how Dark a wizard I am.”

As he spoke, he held up his left arm to display the Dark Mark blazoned on it. Harry felt, more than heard, the ripple of muted horror that passed around the table. He gave Draco’s hand a sharp tug to get him moving.

“Come on, love. You’ve made your point.”

Draco paused only to fix Andromeda with a pointed glare (why, Harry wasn’t sure, but he intended to find out at a more opportune moment) before he turned and stalked toward the house at Harry’s side.

The instant they were through the kitchen door, shielded from all eyes, Harry halted and pulled Draco into his arms. The other man was shaking.

Bending to bring his mouth to Draco’s ear, he whispered, “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

Draco fastened both arms around Harry’s waist and mumbled, the words muffled in the taller man’s shoulder, “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“No, you were brilliant.”

“I frightened Bob.”

“He’ll be all right. Hermione will take care of him, and she’ll floo if he needs us.”

“Get me out of here, Harry.”

In answer, Harry turned on the spot and apparated them away, tearing through the Burrow’s wards like they did not exist.

They appeared on the hearthrug in their bedroom at Grimmauld Place. Harry, still with Draco wrapped tight in his arms, guided him over to the bed and sat him down on the edge of the mattress. Then he dropped to a crouch between his feet and took both of his hands in his. His eyes fell on the ugly tattoo that sprawled up his husband’s forearm and, on an impulse, he bent to kiss it.

Draco only ever bared his Dark Mark when he had something to prove. When he wanted to assert his power and demand respect from those who dared to underestimate him. It was a deliberate act. An act of bravery and defiance. And it never failed to fill Harry’s heart with pride.

It was also incredibly hot and never failed to fill Harry’s cock with want. Today was no exception, but Harry had enough good sense and restraint to keep the heat in his pants to himself until he could judge Draco’s mood. At the moment, it was a toss up whether his husband would lash out with his rogue magic and turn all the draperies in the house baby-shit brown, or jump him in a frenzy of lust.

Or he could just ask for a cup of tea. Draco was unpredictable that way.

Gazing up into his husband’s tense, white, unreadable face, Harry said in his gentlest tone, “They had to find out sooner or later, love.”

Draco spoke without inflection, his eyes fixed on nothing. “I thought they would be happy for us.”

“They will be. Just give them time to adjust. It was a shock for everyone.”

Draco’s eyes finally shifted to meet Harry’s, showing him the fear lurking deep inside them. “You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you? My parents are going to find out that another potential Malfoy Heir is on the way, and they’re going to come after us again.”

“How…?” A vision of their last moments at the party flashed through Harry’s head—Draco staring at Andromeda with narrowed, furious eyes—and he understood. “Andromeda.”

Draco nodded. “She’ll go straight to my mother with the news.”

Harry wanted to argue with him—to insist that Andromeda would never put their child in danger by revealing its existence to the Malfoys or risk having her own beloved Teddy deprived of the Black/Malfoy inheritance—but he knew it was pointless. Draco was right. Since reconnecting with her sister after so many years, Andromeda had become even more obsessed with the sanctity of Family than Molly Weasley, and that was saying something. She would never keep the news of another grandchild from Narcissa.

Tightening his grip on Draco’s hands, he said, “I’ll protect you both. They couldn’t get to Felix, and they won’t get to the new baby, either.”

“We’ll have to disinherit this one, like we did Bob, as soon as it’s born.”

“Of course. Draco, love, don’t worry. We’ve got this.”

A tremor passed through his body and contorted his features for a moment. “I hate them for doing this to us. To our children.”

“They haven’t done anything yet. Maybe they learned their lesson and won’t even try, this time.”

Draco gave him a sour look that (perversely) reassured him by its familiarity. “This _is_ Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy we’re talking about. Have you met them?”

“Prat,” Harry said, adoringly. Then, rising to his feet, he pulled Draco up after him and into his arms. Settling his husband’s body against his own, he feathered a kiss to his lips and murmured, “What can I do? What do you need to make this better?”

Draco smiled against his mouth and pressed his hips forward, reminding Harry of just how big an erection was lodged in his pants. “Anger sex. Lots of anger sex.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No. You’re quite probably the only person in this miserable world that I’m _not_ angry with at the moment. But you’re here, and you’re willing, and if I don’t get fucked in another minute, I’m going to start blowing things up just to relieve the pressure.”

Harry grinned. Lifted Draco’s feet from the floor. Tossed him bodily onto the bed and pounced, pinning him down with his weight. In the instant before he banished their clothes, he paused to remark, “I was hoping it would be sex rather than a cup of tea.”

“Fuck now. Tea later.”

“I love it when you go all posh and eloquent on me.”

Draco’s answering laugh made Harry’s heart soar. “Shut it and fuck me, you Gryffindor git!”

“With pleasure.”

*** *** ***

Harry awoke to an insistent tapping noise. He groaned and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. The tapping got louder.

“What the fuck?” he mumbled.

“It’s an owl,” a gruff voice said from just beside him. “It’s been trying to get in for the last ten minutes.”

“And you couldn’t haul your carcass out of bed to open the window?”

“No.”

With another groan, Harry pushed himself upright and swung his feet to the floor. The sun was barely up, but it shed enough light to let him see the silhouette of an owl perched on the windowsill. He didn’t bother with his glasses, having no intention of reading mail at this hour, just ambled over to the window and jerked it open. The owl fluttered into the room, circled the bed once, and dropped a parchment envelope on Draco’s head before landing on the back of a nearby chair.

Draco sat up to look at the envelope. His sleepy face darkened in a scowl, and he flung the letter away as if it hurt him to touch it. “From my parents.”

“Are you going to read it?”

“No. I’m going to burn it.”

“Allow me.” He fired an _Incendio_ at the offending letter, turning it instantly to ash and leaving a grey smear on the coverlet. Then he rounded on the owl. “And you can clear off. Go on! Get out!”

The bird gave him an evil glare and snapped its beak angrily, but when Harry advanced on it, hands waving, it finally launched itself out the window. Harry was just reaching to pull the window closed, when another winged form swept past him. Then another.

He and Draco stared at the birds perched side-by-side on the foot of the bed, then turned to exchange a wary look. Draco’s mouth tightened. He heaved a resigned sigh.

“So it begins.”

**_Finis_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Next up: a multi-chapter fic that covers the final months of Draco's pregnancy.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked the story, and I'd reeeeeally love to know what you think! Comments feed my muse!


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